Page 15

Two Weeks Later

The few days in Malibu after the birthday party were a very welcome reprieve from all the work I did in Oxfordshire. Trying to get the house ready for sale in only a month took a lot of hours.

We spent some time down at the beach, and I even played tennis with CJ and Wolf daily, putting my rusty abilities to good use after so long without even picking up a racket.

But unlike Sebas and Mike, I wasn’t reluctant when the time came to fly back to New York.

What I told Liam was true—thanks to my work, I’m surrounded by beauty every day, and nothing makes me happier.

I was ready to get back into it.

More than a week later I’m still playing catch-up, and that’s why I’m up before the sun rises—because I like to walk to work and it’s a fifteen-block walk, but also because it’s the middle of the summer in Manhattan, and the less time I spend under the sun and surrounded by tourists, the better.

Though, to be fair, plenty of tourists have started coming into Sebas’s gallery since it was featured in a New York Times article about up and coming artists.

“Mas— Carter,” Milton cuts himself off with a displeased frown.

It doesn’t even matter that I haven’t had a sip of my brewing coffee yet; I still smile. When he flew in and I picked him up at the airport, he very pointedly called me Carter for the first time in my life, and I’ll never stop feeling triumphant about it.

“What are you doing up so early?” he asks. He’s not wearing his slacks and perfectly pressed shirt, but his pajamas. I instantly feel bad.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It was the machine,” he says, more subdued now as he nods toward my most prized possession—my Keurig.

“You can go back to sleep. I’m going to get breakfast at the bakery, but I need to go to work earlier today.”

“Nonsense.” He dismisses me and even waves his hand back. “I’m preparing you something so I can be sure you’re well fed.”

“You’ve been to the bakery, Milton,” I say deadpan. I took him for a treat only a couple of days ago on his first afternoon here. “You know how amazing everything is there.”

“That might be,” he mutters as he turns on the stove and puts a small pan on top of the flame. “But it’s not nutritious enough for such a long workday.”

I consider trying to convince him to go back to sleep, since he also has a long workday ahead of him—getting the brownstone up to his standard will take more than a few days—but instead I focus back on my filling cup, and show my manners. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” he says breezily with his head now stuck in the refrigerator.

After I take my first sip, I remember CJ’s text from last night.

“Put something together for yourself as well. Since I’m going to take the time to have breakfast there are some things I’d like to discuss with you.”

“All right,” he says absentmindedly, but I know he’s intrigued. Maybe even curious.

The thought has me giddy as I walk up two flights of stairs back to my bedroom and turn on the shower to complete step two of my wake-up routine.

It only takes me fifteen minutes to get ready, but you’d think I was gone for hours with how different the kitchen looks when I walk back down.

The early morning light is starting to be visible through the patio doors off the kitchen, and the smell of toast, eggs, and grilled sausages fills the room in the most perfect way.

It’s home.

In a way the house in Oxfordshire was home too, and that almost makes me stumble over my steps, the emotional hit is that strong.

“Your second cup of coffee is ready, Carter,” Milton tells me mildly, then grabs two full plates and carries them over to the oval dark-wood table that’s surrounded by a cozy bench on two sides and chairs on the other two .

I dig right in and Milton follows my lead. It’s only when I’m done with my second big bite that I feel ready for this conversation—though I have to give credit to Milton for not pressing me to get on with it.

“CJ texted me last night,” I start, and though I know I have his full attention, Milton barely looks up at me, he only hums. “He told me a few things he wanted to make sure I told you.”

“Should I get his suite ready?” Milton asks. Now he’s straightened and looking more alert.

We call the two rooms on the fourth floor the suites because they’re the biggest rooms of the brownstone, and though he objected, I remained firm with CJ that I would not be using any of them.

The guest bedroom I chose on the second floor is perfect for my needs, it even has a walk-in closet and en-suite bathroom that would look perfect in any five-star hotel.

“No.” I shake my head once. “He’s more than busy with his surgery residency, so I doubt he’ll be making a trip here anytime soon.

” Though he is having second thoughts about the whole thing.

He told me all about it when we managed to catch a moment with just him, Adam, and me.

But Milton doesn’t have to worry over that.

“CJ’s mother had the brownstone redone, redesigned, and remodeled every five years or so as far as he’s told me.

He’s well aware that it’s up to par with modern necessities, but he wants your input on any potential changes that might be needed that he or I might not have thought of. ”

Milton only stares at me for a long moment, and then he goes back to eating. I give him the time and space to think about it, because I know that’s the way he works, and go back to my own perfect breakfast .

He finishes before me and then just stares out the windows into the joke of a garden, so when I’m done, I take everything back to the kitchen, and knowing I’m risking his disapproval, I rinse the plates and put everything in the dishwasher.

“I’ll give it some thought, and I might need to ask CJ a few questions before I offer any suggestions,” he tells me when I walk back to him.

I nod. I knew he’d say something like that.

“I’ll make sure you have his phone number and let him know to expect a call or message from you.”

“Thank you, Carter,” he says, back to staring out the window.

“I need to leave for work now, but I’ll be back tonight.”

“Maybe you should invite some of your friends for supper tonight,” he says casually.

Way too casually .

“Why do you say that?” I ask as I walk to the front door where I can grab my keys and wallet.

“I thought I’d see more of them once we were here, but you’re as alone as you were in Oxfordshire.”

“I saw Rupert a few times,” I mumble, focusing intently on putting on my shoes. It’s not like I haven’t been doing it for more than twenty-five years.

“I’ll have dinner for four waiting,” he calls out as I go to open the door.

I freeze and sigh, then look back at him.

“I’ll text you and let you know how many are coming.”

“Good.”

He nods like he’s doing me a favor, and I grumble as I finally get out of the house and into the already way too humid and way too hot morning.

Good thing I always keep deodorant in my office.

Penelope and Lorry walk me through what they thought of for our reorganization project of St. Anthony’s.

When CJ entrusted me with all the art the Clemson family had gathered for generations, I knew it was something that would always be more important to me than it could ever be to him. I appreciated his vote of confidence, and his gesture.

Because that’s what it is, a gesture.

I know it, he knows it, but nobody has said it out loud.

CJ couldn’t care less about these pieces of art. He honestly only cares about which charities get the money from the sales.

So when I asked if I could hire someone to help me, and he insisted on me hiring two people, I knew he also understood how important my other work is. Just two buildings down the block is Sculpt, Sebas’s gallery—Sebas cares a lot about each piece that passes through his doors.

I didn’t have to wonder even for a minute who I wanted to hire to help me in this endeavor, and the only two people I tolerated from my master’s course were Penelope and Lorry.

They’re passionate, hardworking, and most importantly, ethical—yes, not everyone in the art world is ethical, and that includes some of our professors.

The reason for all of our early arrivals today is because we have twenty new pieces—the last pieces—to hang up and showcase.

We’ve done amazingly in the last year, selling constantly and finding good homes for all these paintings and sculptures, and we’re almost at the finish line.

Thankfully, as soon as this is done, I’ll get back to normal management, and they’ll start the real work—finding more talent we want to showcase.

We’ve defined the brand of St. Anthony, and we’ve made sure to stick to it even while having art from different ages and with different styles. Now we have to find artists who fit that brand and who we want to promote.

It’s exciting, moving forward and making sure St. Anthony becomes successful even after we’re done selling all the pieces his relatives have been collecting for more than a hundred years.

What’s even more exciting is that the earnings the gallery makes from sales of new artist’s pieces will still go to different charities and causes CJ wants to champion. Our salaries are coming right out of the building’s earnings on rent, and so it’s already a pretty self-sufficient business.

We get to support newer artists and charities, which means we all feel pretty good working here.

Together, the three of us spend four hours moving pieces around and putting up new stands we’d ordered that will fit certain frames better, and by the time we’re done and we’re ready to open after lunch, I know I’m going to need a boost from MP—in the form of a scone and a tall coffee—before I go to Sculpt for what I call my late shift.

I’m in the back, working at my desk on the boring stuff, at least that’s what Sebas calls it, while he’s out front dealing with whichever customers come in.

Though I’m tired, I get this light feeling of accomplishment around five in the afternoon. It happens almost every day, and it’s one of those moments when I’m reminded that this was my dream all those years ago when I was about to graduate from college.

And it still is my dream.

I’m living my dream .

That doesn’t mean my life is perfect, it most certainly isn’t, but still.

.. it’s an amazing thing to feel after an almost full workday.

As soon as I’m done with these last two invoices to an artist Sebas selected to be showcased last year, whose last two pieces sold just last week, I’ll get to go home and?—

Fuck, I didn’t invite anyone for dinner.

And I also didn’t message Milton. I drop my head and groan at the empty room. How am I going to apologize accordingly?

I have no clue, but I hit call on his new number.

“Carter,” he says as soon as the call connects. He... doesn’t sound mad.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call. I was distracted all day and couldn’t even think about inviting anyone over.”

“It’s all right.” He’s speaking in a way too calm voice. I’m instantly suspicious.

“I’ll be home later. ”

“Why don’t you have dinner somewhere else, and that way you’ll still have a social life?”

His question stops me short. What is going on?

“Uh...” I stall, not knowing what to say. “I could do that,” I hedge.

“Good. I did some looking around in a few of the rooms today and I’m making a list for CJ, so I won’t have time for anything special for dinner.”

“Yes, of course,” I rush to agree. “You can rest for the evening, Milton, and we’ll talk tomorrow over breakfast.”

“Good,” he says simply, and then we just say our goodbyes and hang up.

I wish I had a minute or two at least to think about that weird-ass conversation, but a deep baritone and then a younger-sounding voice on the main floor of the gallery catch my attention and my breath stalls completely.

That’s Liam’s voice, and London’s.

I’m frozen on my desk chair, not knowing what to even think while trying to make out whatever it is they’re saying, when I hear Sebas talk too. I can tell they’re moving away from the back wall, and without being able to listen clearly, see them, or even move, I’m drowned in my own thoughts.

For the first time since I forced myself to stop a week ago, I think about Liam and that incredible conversation we had on the grassy hill at the Storm Ranch.

I remember how struck I was when, after returning to the party central and hanging out there for less than fifteen minutes, his parents approached our group and announced they were leaving .

Liam stood up and waved at us with a smile. He said a simple goodbye, belatedly seemed to remember the reason for the party and wished CJ a happy birthday, and then he just walked away.

I was left speechless for a while.

Until George hummed from next to me and muttered, “Weird.”

I snapped at him, “Shut up.” And in his usual way, he said he meant it as a general observation, not an insult.

I believed him then, and I still do now.

Just like I remember how I told myself over and over that Liam didn’t mean to dismiss us rudely. He just heard it was time to leave and so he left.

Now I’m going to see him again—if I ever step out of the office—and the prospect of building an actual friendship with someone who isn’t grossly in love and planning a life with their perfect match is something I can’t pass up.

I love my friends, I really, really do.

And I’m incredibly happy and relieved that they’ve all found what they’ve dreamed of.

But just once in a while I do wish I had someone to ask out for dinner or a few drinks and to have all their attention.

Not all the time, not for the whole dinner, but just for them to ask me how I’m doing and have them listen to me for as long as I need to talk.

I’d do the same for them.

I do the same for them.

And I get it, they share their whole lives now with these people, and of course that’s what they want to talk about.

And now, just thinking about it I feel like a dickhead .

Fucking great.

But the desire to talk to Liam doesn’t go away.

I feel my body unfreeze and I stand.

I’m going to be straightforward with Liam and tell him I’d like for us to be friends. There’s no reason why it should be awkward, in fact, it’s probably the only way to actually start a friendship with that brilliant man.

So I take a deep breath and then the first step out of the office.